Teenage Poems Crumpled at the Back of a Drawer
by Comfy Chair
Summary: It was Jenny's memory that had started Giles spring cleaning; hoping to put her image from his mind. He had been doing quite well until he had found those damn poems crumpled at the back of a drawer. Each one was a reminder of a moment in his life. Each one mocking him. Embarrassments and mistakes. He should tear them up.


Giles laughed. A sound that spoke humour and a sad resignation. He lifted out a small stack of manuscripts; forgotten poems crumpled at the back of his drawer. Some were older than others. Now he had found them he was resigned to the fact that he would have to read them. Like a moth to a fluorescent trap found in a restaurant he had to read them, and stretching the analogy to breaking point, he knew he would be electrocuted and end up lying in a messy tray below. He laughed again. It was such overblown imagery that had made him hide the poems in the first place. He selected the oldest set of verses. A morose one written as a teenager following a dream.

_I opened my eyes kind of slow,_

_to a still Summers day._

_I shielded my eyes from its glow,_

_and there she was smiling_

_with a look so beguiling,_

_saying, "I'll show you the way"_

_Then with a wave of her hand,_

_indicating to me what to do,_

_I followed her on to the sand,_

_and with a look all appealing_

_she sent my senses reeling_

_saying, "I'll have the last dance with you."_

_and all changed to evening_

_Nothing was moving_

_but we danced._

_Her whisper was soothing_

_and entranced,_

_I followed her out._

_and all changed to her room_

_She let me into her garden_

_garden of delight._

_How good it was_

_a wonderful sight._

_She laughed, threw back her hair,_

_and I knew I need never care_

_that my long years of innocence_

_had finally ended._

_and all changed to morning._

_I lifted my head_

_to see her still smiling._

"_Go to sleep now", she said,_

_and with that look still beguiling_

_I closed my eyes._

_and all changed to morning._

_I awoke to reality._

_Its chill ran right through._

_No warm Summer breeze_

_came to greet me._

_I know not if you were in_

_colour or black and white._

_Such questions_

_never come to mind. Like_

_things that you wish you had done;_

_the idea comes to late._

_But I fool myself._

_Like as not I will see another_

_and dream another,_

_and you will be but a reminder_

_of a night of animated pleasure._

_Until then._

_and all changed to morning..._

All the things that had happened since that wishful thinking dream. Giles wondered which was worse, the loss of innocence or the way it was lost. Buffy still suffered. Yet Willow's was surely a memory she relished. Did they write teenage poems and stuff them at the back of a drawer in embarrassment ? Giles' innocence has passed in a haze of smoke and alcohol.

The years that had followed spoke of rebellion; against his calling and those who dared to obligate him to it. The next poem or group of poems read like a script to a video of his early twenties. He could remember his decision to break away from his Watcher training and his insane friends. The same friends he had sat with and conjured up a demon. He thought back to a Mayday afternoon, sitting on the top of Box Hill in Surrey, England. The River Mole flowing at its base. He had broke away from the strangle hold of obligation and felt happy with just his own company.

_A man sits upon a hill_

_surveying the view of unseen faces_

_looking up, but not seeing him sitting still._

_Unseen thoughts, unseen embraces_

_of people together, not alone._

_He lays there on the ground_

_unaware of nature existing -_

_flurrying and scurrying over the wide surround -_

_and not listening to those insisting_

_that birds of a feather flock together._

_The nowhere man sits like a rock,_

_refusing to see hear or talk_

_about why he keeps away from the flock._

_- "if they need to be told_

_then they wouldn't understand_

_how satisfying it feels to hold_

_my own life in my own hand" -_

_The man carries on walking_

_with no aim or intention,_

_one step out of sequence._

_Whilst in the opposite direction_

_the river flows on._

_The man feels no need to hide_

_or submit to correction,_

_showing no pretence._

_Whilst in the opposite direction_

_the river flows on._

_The beauty of the grass flowers and trees_

_pull him to the ground._

_Sitting down with his hands on his knees_

_the towering hill inspires in him_

_a feeling of fortune_

_capable of all feeling, all sight and all sound._

Such naiveté, Giles thought. How could he have thought he could go from summoning a demon to living a life of a recluse. Two such extremes spoke of his immaturity at that moment of his life. Duty and obligation had eventually made him come down off that mental hill. He picked up his training, read the prophecies and signs. He wasted years until he was finally called to be a Watcher, or a replacement one at any rate. But, at least he now had a vocation, a job, a focus.

Oh, Buffy had been so difficult to handle in those early days, and her friends were not much easier. Except Willow. She relished and seemed to cling to her new found responsibilities and usefulness. Darling Willow. So strong in the face of all the adversities they faced, but retaining that childlike joy of discovering love and new friendships.

Giles knew why he found it so difficult to cope with his family of delinquents; they were so young. Everything they experienced separate from the demon dodging was felt to the fullest of their young emotions. Every smile, taunt success and failure was as important to them as the more mundane facets of adulthood were to him. They could risk death with aplomb, but crumble at a thoughtless remark made by a more popular pupil. They could live with the knowledge that monsters might actually live under the bed, but their whole world would be meaningless if a boy or girl showed contempt at their hopes for a mutual attraction.

Giles had found it so hard to relate to such things. After all, it had been so long since that hopeful dream. Despite having re entered the world of people and responsibilities, he was still that fool on the hill. The Nowhere Man. When he had first arrived in Sunnydale love was still a foreign land to him, but he still wanted to go there. A middle-aged man asking teenage questions.

_What is love ?_

_asks the novice._

_Eyes across a table_

_that meet and hold_

_for an awkward moment ?_

_What is love ?_

_enquires the novice._

_A smile or a fable_

_written and told_

_to please and content ?_

_What is love ?_

_replied the fool._

_It cannot be defined_

_explained or felt_

_like pain or ecstasy._

_What is love ?_

_mimicked the cynic._

Despair and worry

_that causes_

_obligations._

_What is love ?_

_dreamed the romantic._

_Indescribable._

_It has to be felt_

_to be realised._

_What is love ?_

_the novice contemplated._

_Can anyone say_

_how it manifests itself ?_

_I am none the wiser._

"Hello, Rupert"

Giles turned round suddenly at the voice. He knew that it was just his imagination. An echo brought on by nostalgia. Jenny had been dead now for over a year. "Oh, Jenny" he thought, "I was born when you kissed me. I died when you left me. I lived a few weeks while you loved me" He quoted Bogart from a forgotten movie.

It was Jenny's memory that had started him Spring cleaning in the first place. Hoping to put her image from his mind. He had been doing quite well until he had found those damn poems. Each one was a reminder of a moment in his life. Each one mocking him. Embarrassments and mistakes. He should tear them up, but instead he folds them almost reverently and puts them back where he found them..

He sits down in his armchair and looks at the window; its position in the room allowing the evening sun to fall across him. Jenny's image appears. It dances amongst the dust motes and smiles. Giles smiles . A smile that reveals both humour and a sad resignation. He sees words appearing in his mind. New words for a new moment.

_The Sun setting brightly_

_through the open window_

_created a hazy_

_vision in the afterglow,_

_of a figure standing_

_like a golden phoenix._

_Savouring the image._

_The mist edged vision,_

_with slender legs_

_as perfect as marble,_

_hovered to edge_

_of the watcher's sanity_

_and flickered in his sight._

_She radiated beauty_

_like a marble goddess,_

_her figure all frailty,_

_the watcher defenceless._

_But, unlike a statue_

_she glorified life_

_in movement,_

_holding no one position,_

_swaying from side to side._

_Her long dark hair,_

_fringed above her eyes-_

_which did not blink nor stare -_

_but flickered like a glittering prize._

_The tops of her breasts_

_revealed a glimpse,_

_not explicit, but that which a photographer_

_catches and calls art._

_The figure lost her concentration_

_the watcher sighed._

_The Sun set, breaking the incantation,_

_but the vision never died._

end


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